“You think you can sail into Aigina with your fancy goods and cheat people out of their shoes because we don't see such things very often,” the priest grumbled. Since that was exactly what Menedemos thought, he denied it with special vigor. He'd made his initial demands so high, even Nikodromos' first counteroffers guaranteed him no small profit. And he didn't intend to settle for those first counteroffers. Once, during the dicker that followed, Menedemos wondered if he'd pushed too hard. Nikodromos stamped his foot and shouted, “No, by the gods! Not another drakhma! Take your trash and get out of my house!” “As you wish, best one,” Menedemos said coldly. A moment later, a crash came from upstairs: someone had dropped—or hurled—a pot. Sure enough, we're playing to an audience, Menedemos thought. He pretended not to notice the noise or the way Nikodromos flinched, but gathered up the silk and the perfume and started for the door. “Wait!” Nikodromos said unhappily. “Maybe we could talk a little more.” “Maybe.” Menedemos did his best to sound as if he were doing the priest a favor. “If you're ready to be more reasonable.” “You're the one who's not being reasonable.” But Nikodromos nervously looked up toward the women's quarters, as if expecting another pot to shatter at any moment. A proverb crossed Menedemos' mind: even Herakles can't fight two at once. Nikodromos might have held his own against Menedemos. Against Menedemos and his own wife, he had no chance. “Are we agreed, then?” Menedemos asked not too much later. “I suppose so.” The priest gnawed at a fingernail. “Seven minai, fifty drakhmai for the emerald. One mina, sixty drakhmai for the silk. And twelve drakhmai for the perfume.” He gave the Rhodian a triumphant smirk at that last price. Menedemos smiled back, as if acknowledging that Nikodromos had beaten him down there. He didn't tell Nikodromos he'd purposely gone easy on the small haggle because he'd done so well on the larger ones. Let Nikodromos keep his tiny triumph, if it made him happy. Counting on his fingers, Menedemos said, “That makes ... let me see . . . nine minai, twenty-two drakhmai altogether. If you'll fetch the silver, you may choose whichever emerald you like.” “Wait here,” Nikodromos said gloomily. “I'll be back.” A hunted look on his face, he scurried into the house. Menedemos cocked his head toward the women's quarters. To his disappointment, Asine kept quiet. But she'd already made her presence felt. When the priest came back with a fresh leather sack, Menedemos said, “If you don't mind, I'm going to take this into the andron.” “I made one small mistake, and now everyone thinks I'm a thief,” Nikodromos said, more glumly than ever. Of course. What else would you expect? Menedemos thought. He didn't say that out loud, though he was tempted. What he did say, was, “Not at all. I'm like my cousin, though: I want to have things straight.” When he'd counted up the coins and put them into glittering rows and stacks in the andron, he found that Nikodromos' payment was four drakhmai over. He picked up four turtles and handed them to the priest without a word: he was convinced the Aiginetan had put them there to test his honesty. “Er—thank you,” Nikodromos said, a faintly embarrassed expression on his face.
Вы читаете The Gryphon's Skull
